


Nosebleed

by engine



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, boston bruins in 2015, with alex galchenyuk!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engine/pseuds/engine
Summary: Habs @ Bruins, 4-2.





	Nosebleed

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr.

He’s fucking _bleeding_. There’s red all over his uniform already, spotted over the Bruins logo, and his nose _aches_. He doesn’t think it’s broken, hopefully, and the refs are finally blowing their fucking whistles. It’s because Looch is getting up in their faces, rather than a penalty, but Alex will take it.

“I’m gonna _fucking_ kill you,” he shouts at Gallagher, even as Krech is getting an arm around Alex’s chest to hold him back.

“Go to the bench,” Krech says, scowling in his usual responsible way and pushing Alex in that direction.

Gallagher’s _smiling_ , practically laughing where the refs are trying to keep Quaider and Looch from pounding his face in. “Yeah, sure,” he calls at Alex, tilting his chin up, “go ahead and try!”

“ _Go_ ,” Krech says again, and Alex finally listens, practically ripping off his helmet. He chucks it at the bench and takes the towel a trainer hands him, before he’s shuffled down the tunnel. The Garden is roaring, a wall of noise that he can hear down the tunnel, all the way through being checked out by a doctor. 

The bleeding finally stops while Alex is staring down at the floor, a paper towel shoved half up his nostrils. He can still see Gallagher’s stupid fucking expression after the butt of his stick connected with Alex’s face, a look of surprise and then pure amusement when no one blew a whistle. 

“You’re clear,” the doctor says, tipping Alex’s head back and squinting at his nose. “You’re probably going to have raccoon eyes, but you can play. Just ice it after the game.”

The Garden’s still loud as hell when he makes it back to the bench, and Gallagher’s in the box now, but so is Looch, of course. Kruger rolls his eyes when Alex sits on the bench, jerking his head at the box. They could’ve used a power play: they’re winning, but barely, 2-1, and the Habs are pushing back on the open ice. It only takes one minutes into Looch’s penalty for the Habs to score on a nasty one-timer from Subban, much to the surprise of no one. The crowd boos, and Alex hops over the boards.

It takes another five minutes before he and Gallagher are on the ice at the same time again; Coach is being careful, not eager for a fight when they’re losing momentum, but it was bound to happen eventually. Krech and Plekanec are stoic at the dot, but Looch is jawing at Pacioretty.

“Too bad it’s not broken,” Gallagher says as the ref sets up the faceoff. “You wouldn’t have had to watch us kick your ass if it was.”

The whistle goes off, and Gallagher fucking _winks_ before he falls back, puck snapping from Plekanec’s stick to Pacioretty. Alex feels off balance, and his face aches, and all he can think of is pinning Gallagher against the boards and punching him in his smug face. He’s a step behind for the rest of the period, and while things are better in the third, it’s not enough.

They lose the game, 4-2.


End file.
